


Excessive

by Sarcophagus



Category: Milo Murphy's Law
Genre: Angst, Dakota Needs a Hug, Dakota has issues, M/M, Pre-Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 11:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15023297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcophagus/pseuds/Sarcophagus
Summary: Cavendish gets a glimpse of Dakota's dark side and isn't sure how to handle it.





	Excessive

These days their job is literally shit.

Well, not days, technically. They work afternoons to nights so they can drive off under cover of darkness. It's nearly midnight in Renaissance Florence, and they've done with the potty polishing for today. They've packed up their gear and Cavendish is ready to leave.

"I'ma take a leak first," Dakota says. He reckons if anyone deserves to use a sparkling clean latrine it's him.

"Can't you wait until we're back? Oh, very well." Cavendish gives Dakota a hand sanitizing wipe. 'Don't lose the wrapper' is his exit line.

Leaving an object dislocated in time is a major no-no. Dakota knows this. He knows his partner knows he knows. But Cavendish wouldn't be Cavendish if he didn't fuss about the rules.

After using it Dakota pockets the wipe carefully, then picks up their bag and steps into the night. Cavendish has gone a good way ahead of him down the street, impatient to get home, but he's stopped to look at something in his hand. Dakota'll catch up with him in no time.

The night is soft as velvet. There's no moon. He moves soundlessly across the cobbled street (that's why they call them sneakers), never thinking about what a perfect night for an ambush it is, when a figure appears out of the shadows and jumps Cavendish.

Cavendish doesn't do well with surprises. He gets in one punch, then he's down. The attacker hauls off and kicks him in the head.

That's all he gets the chance to do before Dakota tackles him to the ground. With his full weight on the thug's back he grabs him by the hair and slams his face against the cobblestones. Cartilage snaps. Again. Again. Again -- 

"Dakota, for God's sake!"

Cavendish pulls him off the man. He staggers, shaking with adrenaline. Someone shouts in the distance. They've been spotted. Dakota slings Cavendish's arm across his shoulders, grabs their stuff and runs like hell.

The temporal transporter's around the corner, tucked away in a blind alley. Dakota jumps into the driver's seat and starts the engine. No way is he going to let Cavendish drive when he's maybe concussed.

He punches in the coordinates for the hospital in 2175. There's strands of hair snarled around his fingers. Next to him Cavendish spits blood and tooth fragments into a handkerchief. Dakota's seen worse, but the sight still jolts him.

"You okay?" he asks. Cavendish's head dips in what might be a nod. His pocket watch is dangling across his knee. That's what the assailant was after. He couldn't know Cavendish would defend the damn thing with his life. Anything to prevent cross-temporal contamination.

Cavendish tucks the watch away clumsily and dabs at his chin. The handkerchief's wet and dark in the light from the timestream. Dakota can smell the blood. He turns his head aside and watches the dashboard display count down to arrival.

///

In the ER a nursing droid scans Cavendish and determines he's not in any immediate danger. They sit around for twenty minutes, waiting for the doctor. Cavendish doesn't say a word in all that time. He's holding his jaw, in obvious pain, so Dakota talks to the other patients, who are mostly accident victims and have some pretty cool stories about how they ended up here. While he listens he keeps an eye out for any sudden change in his partner's condition.

Finally the doctor shows up and takes Cavendish with him. Hours pass. Dakota gets fed up and instructs the virtual receptionist to search for Cavendish. Turns out they sent him to the dental clinic in another building. He's going to need tooth bud implants. Whatever else, BOTT employees have good insurance.

Dakota locates the clinic and waits around some more until Cavendish comes out. He's looking better. The right side of his face is well tenderized, but he's washed off the blood and dirt and even waxed his mustache. There's presumably tooth buds behind his tightly compressed lips.

"Hey." Dakota grins at him. He's got a 'new buds' joke all set up, but Cavendish meets his grin with an icy look.

"We need to talk."

///

They return to their office in the twenty-first century. It's a summer afternoon, ninety degrees in the shade, the heat boiling off the sidewalk in angry waves.

Cavendish is pissed. A sore mouth and several missing teeth don't even slow him down in rant mode. He slurs his s's, making him sound slightly drunk, but what he's saying is clear enough.

"Do you realize that you could have killed that man?"

Getting yelled at stings more than Dakota thought it would. "Well, excuse me for saving your ass."

"Don't change the subject! What if he did die? What are we going to tell Block?"

He's got a point. They're supposed to minimize their impact on the time period they're visiting. It's one of the basic rules of time travel. Beating up a local is the literal opposite of that.

Dakota's got his own priorities, but he can't say that. "Yeah yeah, almost screwed up the spacetime continuum, my bad."

"Bugger the spacetime continuum!" Cavendish roars. Dakota blinks. "I'm talking about you!"

There's an echoing silence. Cavendish's shoulders slump.

"I don't understand," he says. "It isn't like you."

The anger's gone. He looks old and tired and bewildered. _You weren't really trying to kill him, were you?_ Good old Dakota would never. Right?

He doesn't get it. Dakota ought to reassure him, twist and hide like always, but he's so fucking done.

"Yeah?" he says roughly. "That's what you think."

He turns away so he won't have to see the shock on Cavendish's face. "I'm gonna get some air."

He reaches the exit before Cavendish can react. The door slams on his name. Down the iron stairs, clattering, and he's on the sidewalk. Heat closes around him like a vise.

He needs to think. He can't think. When the Bureau hears about this they're going to ask him to account for his actions. There'll be a psych eval. Maybe spy cams as well, and won't they be surprised to find out he's crossing his own timeline on the regular. And Cavendish... right now he's probably thinking he doesn't need a loose cannon for a partner.

He walks faster, on the verge of breaking into a run. Cavendish is going to cut him loose, because he doesn't know why he needs Dakota. That it's Dakota who brings him back as soon as he's washed the blood and brains from his tracksuit. Over and over and _fuck_ it felt good to lash out. Even though the mugger was just a guy, nothing to do with the long trail of corpses, it felt like payback.

Dakota stops in the middle of the street and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. The drag of it against his fingers makes him feel soiled.

Get a grip, he tells himself. There's an easy fix, one he should've hit on instantly. All he has to do is go back to the Renaissance and prevent the attack. No one gets hurt, the Bureau won't get up in his grill and Cavendish won't find out anything. One of him will get stranded in fifteenth-century Florence, but that's okay. When it pops out of existence the old timeline will take that Dakota with it.

The tension in his gut eases, giving way to a different, hollow feeling. He's gone too long without eating. His wallet's in another jacket, so he'll have to grab a few sandwiches from their apartment before he leaves.

To be honest he's just as happy to make a stop there. Checking on Cavendish is as much of a reflex as finding a snack. It's not until he walks through the front door that it hits him he's about to erase this Cavendish from existence. He's never done that before. It sticks in his throat, but what can he do?

Cavendish sits at his desk, cradling a half-empty cup of tea in his hands. He gives Dakota a funny look. Guarded, almost wary. A little chill runs down Dakota's spine. He hadn't considered that his partner may be scared of him now.

"Well?"

At least he sounds like himself. Still salty, apparently. Since none of this will ever have happened, Dakota says the first thing that comes into his head. "Thought I'd write my report."

"Don't bother. I've already sent in mine."

Okay then. This isn't a conversation he wants to have on an empty stomach. He needs to take off now, but he can't make himself move.

Cavendish gets up from the desk, his eyes fixed on Dakota. "Look. If we're to put this incident behind us, nothing of the sort must ever happen again. Will you promise?"

He's going somewhere Dakota didn't expect. It's like they aren't on the same page. "What'd you tell Mr. Block?"

"What he needed to know. That you incapacitated an armed assailant." His voice softens. "And that you saved my life."

"But --" _I do that all the time_. Dakota tries to gather his thoughts. Something's off but he can't put his finger on it, and then he can. "I didn't see a weapon."

If the mugger was armed Dakota would be in the clear. That's justified force right there. Except he wasn't. Dakota's no great shakes as an agent but he pays real close attention to details like if his opponent's packing or not.

That look again. Not wary after all, but intent. "Think, Dakota. Are you sure?"

"Well yeah, I'm -- "All of a sudden he gets it. "You're right. He definitely had arms."

Cavendish lied. In his _report_. He covered for Dakota. He wants him as his partner, no matter what. Dakota clears his throat and swallows hard.

"It's all right," Cavendish says. "The man recovered."

Dakota has to choke down a laugh; it's so totally Cavendish to assume that's what's eating him. "Great," he croaks. "That's great."

He probably sounds like he's about to fall apart, because Cavendish takes him by the shoulders. "Anyone can have a bad day. We needn't dwell on it, as long as I have your word."

Dakota nods, and the movement becomes a kind of dive that ends with him burrowing into the crook of Cavendish's neck. He's never hugged him before, always rationed his touches so he won't come across as handsy or clingy, but he's too weak with relief to stop himself. He smells antiseptic and fancy aftershave. The stiff shirt collar scrapes against his nose. He could stay like this forever, or five seconds, whichever Cavendish allows.

Cavendish is thrown. He freezes, processing the situation. Then he puts his hand on Dakota's back. His touch is unexpectedly firm.

"There now," he says. "It's all right," and it is. It really is.


End file.
